All I Ask of You
by TeenWriterGirl
Summary: Pinewater Creek Rehabilitation Institute Entry Application Question 1: Please tell us about yourself. My name is Deanna Winchester. I'm here on counts of attempted suicide. My story doesn't matter. And frankly, we all know I'm going to rot in this hellhole regardless. Listen or not- I'll kick your ass either way. {A mental hospital Destiel AU with reverse genders.}


**Prologue?**

_ I really do wish you the best. _His words echoed in the back of my mind, a jarring mock that rang out nearly as shrilly as the slam of the door into the first room I ever experienced in the building that was soon to become my new home. I could tell he really did mean what he had said—not a man for physical touch, Robert rarely spoke or demonstrated anything to could _remotely _resemble affection. Yet there he was, his hand repeating a circle around the small of my back, just below where the straps of knapsack fell. The silence that followed proved to be even more uncomfortable than the original notion of comfort, and soon enough, his calloused hand was back at his side. Instead, his thick fingers moved to the sleek silver countertop that was before us, tapping out a rhythm of sorts.

_Tap ta-tap. _"I really do think this'll do some good for ya, Dee…" His voice trailed off, my nickname resounding into the stillness. _Taaap. _His fingers ground the surface in a gliding motion, each finger trailing only a millisecond after the next. I forced a smile, shifting the strap on my bag.

"Yeah," I replied hoarsely, my words coming out as if my mouth had been rusted shut. He paused for a moment to massage his temples, his hand slowly falling across his eyes, before reaching the stubble of what used to be a full beard. Unable to even look at me, he stared straight ahead, at the reception's desk, waiting for the empty swivel chair to be filled, for the dormant computer to be awoken from its hibernation. It wasn't like I blamed him. Each second in this entryway became increasingly more difficult to breathe, and I was rapidly forgetting how to. I was debating whether or not to just hold my breath when a short lady, probably old enough to be Robert's mother, padded her way over to her seat. With great pains, she delicately placed a nameplate on the counter, only a few inches from where Robert's hand lay. Squinting as the gold hit the artificial lighting, I examined it: _Ms. Grace Reynolds._

"Hi-ya Grace," I greeted with as much enthusiasm as I could possibly muster with the sarcasm that was pulsing through my blood. Robert harshly glanced down at me, but I didn't bother making eye contact. I was too busy looking at the disheveled secretary who was doggedly pulling her glasses from the top of her head to the bridge of her nose, giving a look that I would expect most to give to a dog that had just pissed on the carpet.

"It's _Ms. Reynolds_," she corrected through gritted teeth—at least, I think they were teeth… they could've very well been dentures, or whatever the fake chompers were called these days. Lowering my head, I attempted my best curtsy that I could in Levi's and hiking boots, and returned to making eye contact with her. Ms. Reynolds's eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, but she decided to ignore my actions, instead seating herself before lethargically clicking on a Gateway PC that was likely old enough to be one of her grandchildren. Thankfully, the dial-up appeared to be in a good mood, since what appeared to be a a schedule was soon filling the desktop.

"Dean-a?" she chirped, her face only a few inches from the screen. I sucked in my lower lip.  
"Deanna," I answered placidly. "Deanna Winchester." Nodding, she double-clicked on one part of the screen, which was then followed by the humming of a printer in the background.

"One moment," she stated blandly, spinning her chair around as she slowly rolled it to the printer. After grabbing the documents, she shuffled back to the front, before placing them on the space before Robert and myself.

"I already sent in the papers—" Robert began, his voice slowly increasing in volume.

"These are ones that have to be filled out _upon admittance," _she irritably responded, returning to her keyboard. Robert said nothing, only scrawling his name here and there, initialing when he had to. After a moment, he slid the papers back to her.

"Did she sign?" the secretary gruffly inquired, adjusting her glasses as she glanced over the papers.

"She signed the ones I sent in," Robert answered, his voice gaining an edge.

"_These _papers," Reynolds said glowering, her lips puckered in annoyance.

"Just give them to me," I muttered as I yanked the forms from the woman's hand. Leafing through them, I was baffled to see no spot for my signature. It wasn't until I scanned the bottom of the final page when I saw what she was speaking of. Following a paragraph of what seemed to be size five text, was a long line with an "x" next to it, beneath the bolded statement "**I agree to the following terms and conditions of the Pinewater Creek Rehabilitation Institute.**" Rolling my eyes, I scrawled my signature, not bothering to dot the "I" in my last name. They could figure it out.

"Here you are," I said as I slid the papers back over to her. Glancing over the chicken scratch that was my finest penmanship, she shuffled the papers into a file.

"Come with me then," she ordered, in a voice that was already grating on my nerves in less than five minutes. She peered over at the small bag that was precariously dangling from my shoulder. "Is that all you brought?"

Sheepishly, I glanced quickly at Robert before giving her a quick nod. After appearing to seemingly roll her eyes, she walked through a swinging half-door, coming up alongside me.

"We'll be going now," she stated as she gave Robert a sharp look. He nodded his head in recognition. He raised his hand to give a departing wave to me as he exited, as if he wanted to do more than just that simple motion. I swallowed hard, flicking my fingers into a partial salute. I could see him gulping the air as well, his Adam's apple bobbing. Turning around, he pushed the entry door open, which he would now be using to do just the opposite. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he left the building without another word.

"So," I said in an attempt to break the awkward silence, "where's this party I've been hearing so much about?" With barely a glance in my direction, she walked down the corridor that went past the reception desk, into the thick of the building. Two steel doors kissed the back wall, and with the most tenderness she had mustered throughout the entirety of our acquaintance-ship, she gingerly pushed the door open.

"I wish you luck," she murmured in a monotone voice, before reclosing the door behind me. The only sounds I could remember hearing from the outside world after that were the distant clacks of her "sensible" shoes, but even that faded. Turning around, I found myself in a conference room, as welcoming as it was comforting. White-washed walls made the room out to be a giant cubicle of sorts, with a mahogany table in the center. The only other presence in the room was a rather chunky man sitting in a straight-back wooden chair, scrawling some notes on a memo pad. He hurriedly looked up.

"Sit please," he distracted muttered as gestured to the seat across from him. Though not usually one to oblige, I did as he said, cracking my neck as I seated myself. After what seemed like ten minutes (though it could've very well been seconds, I didn't have a good semblance of time in the clock-less room), he looked up.

"Deanna Winchester, I presume." His words were crisp, just as his tie was over his pressed shirt. Running a hand over his moustache, which was the same hue as his rather greasy hair as he pondered something, he held out his hand. I stared at the thick, knobby hand for a moment, not as much disgusted as I was confused. As much as I hated rude bastards, a welcoming committee to a place such as this hardly seemed like the proper greeting. After a few seconds, I firmly returned the handshake.

"Yes. And you are?"

"Roger Pendleton, the Chief Director and Head Administrator of this establishment. Though Dr. Pendleton will do just fine, thank you." He nodded as he released my hand, sitting back down in his chair. I sighed internally, not wanting to piss off the man I'd be answering to all that badly… but then, again I really didn't care. If he wanted to write notes on his memo pad about my breathing patterns, he could go right ahead. God knows more people would be doing it later on.

"Thank you… Dr. Pendleton," I replied, though unsure on why I was thanking him in the first place. He nodded, clearly pleased at the Ph.D. he had worked all too hard to receive. As he unwound a string from a fairly large manila envelope, he continued to mutter various nothings that failed to meet my ears, before finally pulling the papers from their sheath.

"We found your case to be particularly compelling," he continued as he laid out the papers in front of him. "Normally, we don't take scholarship cases, but your application was very moving." He grabbed a pen as he glanced over the papers below him. Leaning back in my chair, I smiled charismatically.

"I try," I remarked dryly. "My sister helped with some of the bubble choice things though. Most days I think I'm white, but if I wake up too early I _swear _I'm Pacific Islander—"A harsh glance in my direction caused me to falter.

"You think this is funny?" He regarded me coldly, his eyes no longer holding the feigned sense of welcoming they had before. "This is _not _a joke, Miss Winchester. I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation here."

"Believe me, I do," I answered, the smile not wavering from my lips, "though I do want to emphasize something I forgot to put on my application. Could you make sure my room has a steam shower? You know, since I _will _be here for the traditional session time, and all. At least, I hope this is a notch above the locker rooms. I swear, _everyone _would try and look at my—"

"_That is enough!_" The director's face was turning a becoming shade of pink before he shook his head in an attempt to circulate the blood in his cheeks a little bit more. "Miss Winchester, one of the core values we uphold here at Pinewater is that of utmost respect. When you respect those around you, you shall learn how to respect yourself. And right now…" He trailed off, shaking his head once more. "It doesn't matter. You shall learn all of this one way or another." Shaking out the envelope once more, a lanyard with a laminated tag attached fell out. I could see my application photo, blurred and copied a number of times, staring at me from its transparent covering.

"This is your pass," he informed me, gruffly sliding it to me. "Whatever you do, Miss Winchester, _don't lose it. _It contains your admittance to the building, and it also contains the number of passes you get to the leave the building and go to town." He paused and he gave me a superior look. "That is, of course, if you submit your travel request to the Board, which will then determine whether you are of proper health to be traveling." The way the words slid over his tongue like a sticky sort of venom gave me my doubts that any application I sent in would be refused.

"Sounds good to me," I said coolly, a sly smile still on my lips. Disregarding what he would probably assume to be "disrespect," he continued with his orientation.

"Breakfast is served from 7 to 8, lunch is 12-1, dinner is 5-6. You are granted a recreational phone call once a week unless an emergency occurs, or a call is directed to you that we feel is necessary. In the literature I will be giving you momentarily, you will receive your personal schedule. On the weekends, we have special activities that allow you to interact with your fellow ward-mates. Hmm, let's see…" His voice trailed off as his sentences grew coarser and quicker. "Right. The water gets turned off after 10 PM, and _curfew is at 11:00_." His voice grew a strange sense of darkness as he uttered the last words. I nodded briskly in reply.

"Sir, I'll be in bed by 10:30." I responded, biting my lip in an attempt to keep a somewhat serious expression on my face. Pendleton stared at my face, the small creases within his forehead becoming embedded in the stretched skin that was already there.

"I suppose we'll have to see then," he said, doubt coursing beneath his words.

"I guess so," I grinned, swinging my bag to my right arm so I could hold my new pamphlet in another. For a moment, we were locked in a bout of stiff eye contact, each of us fairly reluctant to break. At long last, the man shook his head irritably, gesturing to a side door from the conference room.

"Continue down that corridor to the end of the hall," he began, "and you will find a staircase. If my memory serves me correctly, your room is 35, on the _third floor._" His voice dripped with emphasis as began to pack up his papers.

"Thanks Doc," I chuckled as I opened the door, closing it loudly behind me. I didn't need to have the soundproof walls to tell me the director's annoyance had begun to heat up again. But did it really matter? I could only wonder this in my mind as I made it to the stairwell, hurrying my way up the thinly carpeted stairs. As my torso bounced with each step, I could hear keys jingling on the lanyard around my neck. Well, that much was good. As much as the man must dislike me now, at least he was screwing me over with the fact that there actually was a room for me. Turning the corner to the third floor, examining each door for the desired number of key, I found myself with little trouble. Upon finding my new home, the door unlocked without a hitch, and the room was actually… not the prison cell I'd been expecting.

What appeared to be a full-size cot was in the corner of the room, with a nightstand and lamp jammed next to it. Across the room was a small dresser, with more than enough room for the clothing I had brought, as well as surface area for my small amount of other memorabilia. An archway on the side proved to lead into a small closet and bathroom, complete with a shower stall. As I felt everything down, I could tell it was all some sort of plastic or silicon compound—nothing that could be used for harm. But then again, the vanity mirror was very much so legitimately glass. Not that I would ever have the need or desire to smash it.

Little time passed in between. Putting all of my belongings away took all of five minutes, and before it was even dinnertime, I was already lying on my bed. The grayscale ceiling stared me back as I gazed up at it. In a bittersweet way, it almost reminded me of home, the way Robert had never believed that much in interior decorating. But thinking about Robert reminded me of other people in life, ones I swore I would block from my mind during this stay at the institute.

With any luck, ignorance would be my new best friend.


End file.
